Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(9)

I growl a response so it comes out as more of a warning than a greeting. Is it a bit much for this time of day? Maybe. Considering our history, I’m not exactly worried about her impression of me, though.

Emma Green is the latest and greatest “crime” reporter for our friendly neighborhood tabloid. And I use the term “reporter” loosely, by the way. Very loosely.

Doesn’t care about getting the story right in certain cases, if ya know what I mean, loosely.

Her name’s been on nearly every article Redemption’s local paper The Chronicle has put out since she arrived from somewhere down in Florida. She shows up at most crime scenes, from burglaries to homicides, and has very much become a royal pain in my…

“You’re late, by the way. They were just talking about you.” She mutters and points, blindly, down the hall as she steps into the elevator. Which is my cue to get the f*ck out.

My one and only cigarette calls to me from the front pocket of my button-down. Thank God I remembered it. But quite frankly, I don’t have the energy to pull it out. Not that I wouldn’t get arrested if I did, but . . .

“And you look like hell.” She’s full of compliments today, I see.

“Fuck you very much, Green.” Not that I’m complaining. It makes it easy to respond to her in like fashion. And bonus: I’m feeling pretty good about getting the last word in on this battle of the banter, as the doors close but then they open again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stay up so late playing around with your buddies over at the police department.” I look back to see her foot blocking the sensors that would normally allow the doors to close. She still can’t be bothered to look up. She’s too busy burying her nose into the iPhone.

Let’s be real here. Flirting is not her forte.

“I appreciate that enlightening bit of useless advice, Green.” Despite my attempt to be nice, sarcasm spills out of every word. It’s only when she pulls her foot all the way in and the doors are halfway shut that I ask myself: how did she know I was downtown last night?

Emerald eyes peer up at me as the question enters my mind. And I swear, she’s f*cking smirking.

Between the pleasant smile and the way her expression lights up like she’s about to pounce, I’m not sure what the hell to think. I haven’t seen her smile like that since the day I briefly met her on the scene of a break-in I was hired to investigate. First thing I noticed was her smile. She seemed… new.

The next thing I noticed was her eyes.

Deep green. The grab-ahold-of-you-and-don’t-let-go kind that make you wanna know everything that’s going on behind them.

And don’t even get me started on her ass. It begs for mercy because she, no doubt, runs it every day, then follows up with a pint of fat free yogurt and a jug of water.

Not that I’ve thought about it.

But I digress.

She was polite enough. Or so I thought. Asked me if I had any insider’s information on what had gone down that day. It’s not like I was rude or anything. All I did was tell her I wasn’t doing her f*cking job for her.

I paid the price for that comment in the article she ran the next day. The headline read, “Local P.I. steals more from family than burglar.” I won’t bother you with the details, but let’s just say, the article was less about the break-in and more about what an * I am.

I mean, what the f*ck?

I can assure anyone who has the balls to ask, I charge less than ninety percent of the dicks working the tristate area. Just ask the bill collectors.

The * thing is still up for debate… in most circles.

Lesson learned here? Never trust a woman with eyes that stunning or an ass that tight.

Basically, I f*cking hate her.

“Stiles!”

Here we go.

Green’s vindictive nature is forgotten as I turn to face the state's attorney, my brother, and his dicktwat of a superior all waiting for me at the end of the hallway. I walk down to meet them. My welcoming smile is usually enough to put people at ease, but this crew? Not so much.

“What’s up?”

My brother, who’s in full uniform, crosses his arms and looks at the very interesting wall beside him like a pouting baby. His boss gives me the old “furrowed brow” look, and I’m confused all of a sudden.

“What? I’m not that late.” I check my watch. “Did the judge change his mind about letting me testify? Is he still pissed? ’Cause I’m going to my appointments.”

Most of them, anyway.

There’s a sequel to the wall, apparently. Nick has now found the more exciting, more mysterious ceiling.

It’s odd behavior even for him.

“Court’s been adjourned, Stiles. You can go home.” Shawn Davenport, the state’s attorney, is the only one to tell me what the f*ck is going on.

“That was quick.”

“Try screwed.” My brother lets his very controlled irritation spill out, and I’m about to ask him about his choice of angry Nick words when we’re both shot down by his dick of a boss. Whose name, coincidentally, might I add, is Dick. Richard, technically, but still…

“That’s enough, Detective!”

… Dick.

“What happened?” I ask the only person in the immediate area who might actually answer me.